


a treatise on making things

by starlight_sugar



Category: Campaign (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 05:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17073935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_sugar/pseuds/starlight_sugar
Summary: He used to sculpt marble. People used to say that he was a prodigy, or a visionary, or any of those things that people say when children show any modicum of talent. But Blue actually was all those things.And then there was the accident. And now he’s too weak, too unsteady to be on his feet sculpting marble day in and day out. So now he’s a painter.





	a treatise on making things

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of the AUcember series, a self-made challenge where I try to write a new AU one-shot every day. You can read all of the AUcember fics in the collection linked above.

Blue burns the first painting he finishes.

“That’s dramatic,” Aava says, when he tries to complain at her. This is why Aava is no good for complaining: that’s a horrible response to hearing that Blue is struggling with something. Aava is, frankly, a horrible friend, and Blue should talk to someone else about this.

But if he told Synox, Synox would say it’s a waste of materials or something. And if he told Zero, Zero would do that thing he does where he tries to act like he’s not freaking out and mother-henning but he would still totally be mother-henning Blue. It’s like one injury makes him incapable of taking care of himself or something.

“It’s not dramatic,” Blue says, because he’s not being dramatic about this. He’s being reasonable. “It was bad. So I burned it.”

“Did you crush the first sculpture you made?”

“Of course.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Aava. He should’ve known she wouldn’t get it. Aava’s a tattoo artist, she doesn’t get a lot of second chances if she makes something bad. She has to get it right on the first try. She doesn’t get the privilege of destroying her failures. Blue does.

“I want my first real painting to be good,” Blue insists. “I want it to be-”

“You want it to be perfect.”

“Is that so much to ask?”

Aava gives him this look that he hates. She’s looking at him the way she looks at her particularly dense clients, the ones who don’t understand why a little tattoo costs that much. It makes him feel like he’s missing some major point, which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t miss things. Not things like this.

“Yes,” she says slowly. “It’s a lot to ask. Because you’re trained in one medium, and you’re trying to learn another, and-”

“Sculpture and painting aren’t that different,” Blue argues. It’s mostly for the sake of argument, because even he knows that it’s a bullshit thing to say. They’re incredibly different. If they were the same, he’d do both of them.

Aava doesn’t even grace that with a response, just pushes forward. “And you have physical recovery to deal with.”

“What does that have to do with painting?”

“You might physically be able to paint, but it takes a lot of personal energy.”

Aava likes to talk about energy and feelings and things like that. The things that Blue likes to ignore. He knows art comes from the soul or whatever, but he’s pretty sure the part of his soul that made art is shriveled up, no matter how hard he pokes at it.

He used to sculpt marble. People used to say that he was a prodigy, or a visionary, or any of those kind, lofty things that people say when children show any modicum of talent. But Blue actually was all those things. Blue was good at everything, and he chose marble to be great at. It was classical, and dramatic, and required all sorts of effort.

And then there was the accident. And now he’s too weak, too unsteady to be on his feet sculpting marble day in and day out. So now he’s a painter.

It’s not the same. He’s beginning to realize that it never will be.

“My personal energy is fine,” Blue more or less spits at her. “If you’re not going to be helpful-”

“Then you can get out of my studio?” Aava arches a graceful eyebrow at him. “You came to me with this, remember that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means-” she reaches out and grazes her fingers down his arm, delicately. She looks sad, and Blue hates that with a passion. “It means that you need to let yourself need help.”

 

#

 

There are a lot of bad things about the art community. Some people say that it’s all cushy and kumbaya, but Blue knows the truth. It’s cutthroat. People are judgmental. People like being recognized. There are only so many jobs for artists, and it’s brutal out there.

Blue has a nice studio. Top of the artistic food chain. Natural sunlight and high ceilings and on the ground level of the building. It’s huge, because he used to have marble slabs everywhere. It’s been empty lately. He uses it for physical therapy. He’s started playing music, which he never used to do when he sculpted, but he’s tired of how empty it is.

He’s also been spending more time there than he has at home, but he’s not super willing to explore his  _ personal energy _ to figure out why that is.

The art community is cutthroat, and Blue loves it. It’s supportive, sure, but Blue’s not here for support, he’s here for spite motivation. Even when he couldn’t sculpt anymore, he bought paints and easels and canvases. He bought things to continue creating, because you are only as good as what you can create, and he has to be great. He has to be the savant here.

It takes him a dozen ruined canvases and well over a dozen ruined brushes to realize that he’s not a savant at painting. The art community is cutthroat, and for the first time, Blue thinks he’d better watch his back.

 

#

 

So the first painting gets burned. The second one, he shreds to ribbons with an old chisel. The third he likes until the next day, and then he paints the whole thing black and tries to paint on the blackened canvas. That becomes the fourth painting, and it’s not good, but it is different, so he at least takes pictures on his phone before he burns that one too.

He keeps up with that for a week, and is starting his second week strong by shredding another painting with a chisel when Zero says “Buddy, I think you’re cracking up.”

Blue doesn’t even turn around, just keeps hacking away at the painting with the chisel. “I’m doing this on purpose.”

“Yeah, that’s the part that worries me. What’d that painting ever do to you?”

“It’s not what it did me, it’s what it did for me. Which is nothing.”

“So you’re shredding it?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Put it in a warehouse so you can sell it once you get rich,” Zero says in disbelief. “That’s what I did with all the prints from my first gallery show.”

Zero is a photographer. He is an annoyingly good photographer. He specializes in - Blue doesn’t know the technical terms, they don’t stick no matter how many times Zero explains it, but he’s really good with urban scenery. His stuff is… well, it’s captivating. Blue could spend hours in one of Zero’s galleries. He has, not that he’s ever going to tell Zero that. Can’t let it go to his head.

“Well, I don’t want to keep this.” Blue drags the chisel through the canvas one last, triumphant time and then turns to look at Zero. “It wasn’t good.”

“It looks fine.”

“Exactly.”

Zero sighs. “Is this what you’ve been doing for the last week?”

“I have actually been painting.”

“And what do you have to show for it?”

“I took pictures of some of them before I ripped them up.”

“But you still ripped them all up?” Zero shakes his head. “You always did have the weirdest way of looking at art.”

“I want to be sculpting again,” Blue says abruptly. He doesn’t mean to, and Zero also looks totally dumbstruck by the admission. And, honestly, anything that startles Zero into silence is probably a good thing, so despite all his better judgment, he keeps going. “I know I talk a lot of big game about being fine after the accident or whatever, but I’m actually still pretty frustrated by the way things are going. I’m sure you’re surprised to hear this.”

Zero looks pointedly at the shredded canvas, still sitting on the easel behind Blue, and then back at Blue. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are searing.

“I was good at sculpting,” he continues, because it’s true. “And I enjoyed it. And I don’t enjoy this, because I’m not good at it.”

“Or the other way around.”

Blue frowns. “What?”

“Maybe you’re not good at it because you’re not enjoying it.” Zero shrugs. “You think I came out of the womb taking pictures of city streets or whatever? I tried doing photo shoots for models, and I hated it, and everything looked like garbage to me. But when I took pictures of things because they were inspirational to me, suddenly I liked what I was doing a lot more, and they got better and better as a result.”

Blue looks back at the shredded canvas. It hadn’t been great or anything, but it had been a step forward. He’s not sure what he’d been trying to do when he was painting, and he certainly can’t remember now as he’s looking at the remnants of it. But he hadn’t hated it.

“Or maybe you just suck at painting,” Zero says, unhelpfully. “Maybe you should find some other art form that involves breaking things. Mosaics out of beer bottles or something. Or specialize in creating shredded canvases. Make the art work for you.”

“I’m not even good at shredding canvases.”

“Of course not. Chisels aren’t meant for shredding things.”

He has a point, because of course he does. Zero is a jackass who understands Blue better than anyone else ever has or will, and he has a way of getting to the heart of the problem. It’s why Blue didn’t ask him for help.

Blue fumbles around until he grabs his cane, leaning against the easel. “I don’t know what’s good at shredding things.”

“I’ll help you search it if you buy me lunch,” Zero says, like Blue knew he would. Zero is terribly predictable. It’s embarrassing. Blue is embarrassed for him. “And if you give me your next painting, whatever it is.”

Blue frowns. That part he hadn’t expected. “Why?”

“So I can sell it once you get famous.” Zero gives him a crooked smile. “Obviously.”

“You can have that one if you want it.”

“No, the shredding has to be an intentional part of the work.”

“What are you, Banksy?”

“No, I’m just saying, I know you can make it look good on purpose.” Zero gives him a significant look. “So you can slice and dice the canvas however you want. But you have to actually try, because otherwise I’ll post it on Instagram and roast your ass, do you understand?”

Blue claps a hand to his heart as dramatically as he can. “You wouldn’t.”

“I will,” Zero says grimly, because he’s a great friend. “Give me something I can sell in ten years, Blue.”

“Needy,” Blue scoffs, and hopes that Zero can hear the  _ thank you _ buried underneath it.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr and Twitter @waveridden!


End file.
